The library after school was a cathedral of silence, made even more profound by its emptiness. The librarian, on a directive from Ms. Kobayashi, had discreetly placed a "Reserved for Study Group" sign at the entrance before leaving for a faculty meeting. The usual rustle of pages and whispered conversations were absent. There was only the dusty scent of old paper and the heavy weight of expectation.
At the largest central table, three figures sat in a triangle of palpable tension.
Kaito occupied one side, his textbooks and notebooks arranged in a precise grid before him. His pen was parallel to the table's edge. He was a bastion of order in the quiet space.
Across from him, Riko sat with similar neatness, though her arrangement had an aesthetic flourish—her color-coded pens were fanned slightly, her notepaper was a high-quality, creamy stock. She observed the third member of their group with analytical calm.
Hikari slouched in her chair at the head of the table, as far from both as the table allowed. Her own bag was slumped on the floor, a single, battered math textbook and a rumpled notebook dumped unceremoniously on the polished wood. Her arms were crossed, and she stared at a point on the bookshelves behind Kaito's head, her expression a masterpiece of defiant boredom. She hadn't spoken since arriving, only giving a grunt of acknowledgment when Ms. Kobayashi had cornered her that morning with the "condition."
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Kaito broke it, his voice cool and procedural, cutting through the stillness like a scalpel. "The objective is clear. To fulfill the condition for the music showcase, you must pass all subject tests. Efficiency requires a structured approach and division of labor."
Hikari's eyes flicked toward him, a spark of annoyance in their depths. She said nothing.
Riko nodded gracefully. "A schedule would ensure we cover all necessary material. Do you have a proposal, Sato-senpai?"
"I do," Kaito said, opening a fresh page in his notebook. He drew a clean grid. "We have three weeks until the first set of quizzes. To maximize efficiency and focus, we will split the sessions." He looked directly at Hikari, his gaze impersonal. "I will conduct sessions on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Aoyama will conduct sessions on Tuesday and Thursday. This provides consistent daily study with differentiated instructional perspectives."
Hikari's scowl deepened. "So I get no breaks?"
"Your goal requires concentrated effort. Breaks are factored into session time," Kaito replied, unflinching. "Today is Wednesday. We will begin now with the subject that often presents the most foundational challenges: mathematics. Tomorrow, Thursday, Aoyama will take over with literature or history, as she deems appropriate."
Riko seemed momentarily surprised by the clear division of days, but she smoothly assimilated it into her strategy. "That seems an equitable distribution. It will allow us to tailor our approaches."
"This is stupid," Hikari muttered, but her protest was weaker now, overwhelmed by the sheer logistical force of Kaito's plan.
"Objection noted," Kaito said, as if logging a minor system error. He slid his own math textbook, open to a chapter on quadratic equations, across the table toward Hikari. It stopped perfectly in front of her. "We will start from a defined point. Explain to me your understanding of this section."
It wasn't a test. It was a request for data. His tone held no judgment, only a need for input.
Hikari stared at the dense lines of text and numbers. Her instinct was to shove the book back, to say she didn't understand any of it and didn't care to. But his gaze was steady, waiting. Not pitying, not impatient. Just… waiting for her operational parameters.
She glanced at Riko, who was watching the interaction with keen interest, her pen poised.
Gritting her teeth, Hikari pulled the book closer. "I get the graph part," she said, her voice rough with disuse. "The parabola. It's… the shape. But the formula… rearranging it to find the vertex…" She trailed off, jabbing a finger at a derivation example. "It's just moving letters around. It doesn't mean anything."
"A parabola's vertex is its turning point," Kaito said. "The formula is a tool to locate that exact coordinate with certainty, not approximation. You understand the art of the shape. This is the science of pinpointing its key feature."
He said it not as a teacher explaining to a dull student, but as someone translating between two dialects. You understand this. Let me show you how that connects to that.
He took a clean sheet of paper and drew a quick, accurate parabola. "Here is your shape." He then wrote the standard form equation beside it. "This is not just letters. It is a set of instructions that describes this specific curve. This number here," he pointed, "tells us if it opens up or down, like the mood of the piece. This part," his pen moved, "tells us exactly where the lowest—or highest—point is. The vertex. The focal point of the shape."
Hikari was looking at the page, her defiant glare softening into a frown of concentration. He wasn't just throwing rules at her; he was connecting them to the thing she had intuitively grasped.
Riko observed, silently fascinated. This was not the cold, dismissive Kaito from the Council meeting. This was a different mode—analytical, yes, but with a patience and a translational quality she hadn't anticipated.
For the next forty minutes, Kaito guided Hikari through two problems. His explanations were concise, logical, and always tied back to the visual representation. Hikari's responses moved from grunts to short, tentative answers. She didn't get it all, but the wall of utter refusal had developed a small, navigable door.
When the library clock chimed the hour, Kaito closed the textbook. "That is sufficient for today. For tomorrow's session with Aoyama, attempt the literature reading on the syllabus. For our session on Friday, complete these five practice problems." He wrote them down on a piece of paper in his clean script and slid it to her. "Attempt them. Wrong answers are acceptable. Unattempted problems are not data."
Hikari took the paper, staring at it as if it were a strange artifact. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
"Then I will see you tomorrow, Tanaka-san," Riko said, her smile polite as she stood. "We shall make progress in our own way."
The three of them packed up in silence. As they left the library, they diverged in the hallway without a word—Hikari heading for the side exit, Kaito toward the main gate, Riko pausing as if to go to the Council room.
But Riko stood for a moment in the quiet hall, watching their retreating backs. The unseen schedule was now set in stone. She had her designated days. She had just witnessed the first, quiet connection in the Wednesday session. Now, it was her turn to see what kind of connection—or what new kind of wall—she could forge on a Thursday.
(End of Chapter 38)